Author: laurab69

So. I thought maybe it was time to limn that fine man of mine a bit. I don’t know what to say to begin. Think of that smile, perhaps. It is never far away. He is one of those people that can retain a sense of humor in any situation. He soothes my always over-anxious mind with his calm demeanor. And I wonder at where it comes from.

He has seen…a lot of places and things that most men do not – or at least had not for a generation. I think it gives him a perspective that others haven’t acquired. Nothing could be as bad as those long nights in another country. I often wish I could have that sort of discernment – the ability to know what in life is pure bullshit to be ignored and tossed aside.

I know he is very skilled at what he does. I trust that his sensibility will keep him alive in a job and a place where there will be many who prefer otherwise. But a part of me can never leave off the worrying – the wondering if he’ll lose his edge for a moment and I’ll lose all.

He cares deeply for his family but not as much for his father. The man ensured that through his own actions, selfishly holding to what he wanted rather than being the selfless parent he ought to have been. To this day the man cannot congratulate him, cannot offer his best wishes. Instead, he looks to his own parents, debilitated, and frets for having to care for them himself. Poor creature.

No…there is no easy way to describe him at all. He is a highwayman and a knight, a soldier and an angel, and he can be a boy sometimes, needing someone to say Good Job. As we all do…as we all do. Good Job, my own. You saved me from myself.

Things are messy around here, lately. My life, my desk, the house, the yard, my truck and even the cats. I have tried so hard to keep all the ends together that the middle has gone to hell. So today I promised myself that I’d get it together – at least a little bit. But where to start?

There’s the packing, to be certain, plenty of that. Or the laundry. Or the lawn mowing. There’s the wedding plans, the catbox and my mind to clear of clutter but now I don’t know what to do first. The cats might have a preference but I refuse to listen to them today due to the 6a wakeup call on my off day. Bastages.

So I think the desk. While the sun maxes out in the sky and I cool off from my workout I can get the filing done and then pack the desk up which needs it very much. But then I see all the little things I’ve kept over the years and get distracted. There’s the photo frame with all the pictures I love – one of me, a self-portrait, on a Boulder height alone after I’d lost all the marriage weight. Peaceful – not smiling, really, but happy. And mom…you never know how much you love your parents until they are gone. That’s a sad truth. My mom was such a fighter. I always thought she was a wimp when I was young but I had no perspective. Up until the end she did her very best. I only wish my last goodbye was more…final. That I’d let her know without fail of my love for her. But I know one thing – she loved my man very much. He promised her, I think, to take care of me for her (I was her favorite in many ways). She loved him. Dearly. And I am ever thankful that they knew each other.

And then the slides – old memories captured in clear sheets of protection. I meant to do so much with them but there was never time. And now they get packed yet again for another dreamtime until they reawaken in a new place, giving a different meaning to the time.

And there the photo of my stepdaughter whom I adore. I shall never have children – hadn’t really mattered until I suddenly and utterly irrevocably could NOT. Then it was…a mourning. The other day I found myself in tears at the loss without really understanding why they’d waited so long. But she is…the embodiment of what I’d hope for. Pretty, sweet, smart and outgoing. She has seen a lot of travail in her life, her parents not being all they ought but she has struggled through to come out a wise girl. And in a way, my own.

But it all must go back into the boxes as it all has thrice before. Hidden away until the time comes to start over, with new intentions and new hopes for a clean desk. An uncluttered existence. A swept clear mind.

What I do for a living isn’t really that complicated. Matter of fact, it permits rather a lot of personal time to do what life demands so I can’t really complain but…I shall, anyway.

You see it’s the people I work with that make it such a pain in the ass. I am surrounded by…characters. At least I give them character names so as to ease the pain of dealing with them. A code of sorts.

There’s Hound Dog, so named because of the jowls that ruin her otherwise very attractive self. She’s nice enough and older but very active so that she has a sense of fashion and such but she’s a short-timer. A few more years and she’ll be retiring so she has a rather casual manner about her workstyle. She is the least offensive of the group.

There is Sucker – she received the moniker because she constantly sucks on her bridge or whatever dental implement or deformity demands that she perform the sucking task every few minutes. She is one of the selectively religious. Each morning finds her sitting her bulk down with a “Thank you Jesus!” and further applications of thankfulness throughout the day when some mundane task (such as rising from the chair and walking to the kitchen) has been successfully completed. I suspect Jesus is quite sick of it by now and addresses this by consistently giving her bad hair days. We have a rather terse relationship ever since her avid liberal stance took on the nature of a personal attack. A discussion with HR has since calmed that down and she mostly keeps to herself. Of course, she is consistently 15-30 mins late each day and takes time off and sets outside appointments without care for the rest of the “team”. I really do hate that…

And then…The Talker. She’s quite the character. She finds in me a compatriot while I try very hard to not engage her. This is because the slightest sentence or agreement will launch a 20 minute discussion. Those 20 minutes will likely be filled with stories that she has related at least 12 previous times. Her worst habit is stating aloud every IM she types when she is piqued by a request from the person on the other side of the IM conversation. Her really worst habit is playing a computer game that demands she click her mouse 3xsecond. Mind you, this is a game likely intended for children in the 5-10 year category. She plays this while the florescent lights glare off her framed certificate from the NSA. Yes, that NSA. What a waste of an intellect. One can only imagine what she might learn if she concentrated as hard on other subjects as she does on that game. And those clicks? They can continue for upward of 3 hours. I imagine in my mind gently unhooking my keyboard and taking a bat-like swing at her head with it. For some reason, her clicking brings me to the edge of violence. Perhaps this could be used abroad in our interrogation process. She, too, has a casual concept of what On Time means. And, having kids, manages to find an excuse every morning whilst blaming them. What a waste of breath.

Surrounding me in the environment are others who are mildly insipid that they merely grate on the nerves. I do not hold myself out as some sort of example of The Perfect Worker Bee. However, I do at least know how to do my job. That would be a nice place to start. And that whole On Time thing. Just this morning I woke nearly 45 mins late and yet managed to get here on time – ugly, perhaps, and in less than minty fresh condition but Present and Accounted For.

Of course, I try very hard to remain in good graces…I want a lot from this place. I am asking for the impossible and just may get it. And only because I am a good worker bee. I take these characters and their shenanigans and swallow my retorts, belay my impulse to pummeling. I take little complaint to the Masters and try to be useful to them. And I am perhaps the most eloquent of the peons. My own smallish intellect evident in the few compositions necessary to the work, clear in my conversations and dry wit.

But I still feel like everyone can see me as I once was – walking away from the 10th grade, flipping off the school, and into a life where being shot at was a job hazard and the ingestion of massive doses of 714’s was the only way to make life tolerable. As though there is a giant sandwich board sign with Loser/Faker noted on it.

If they only knew me then…baby, I’d have slit your throat and walked away laughing. I’d have regretted it later, when the meds wore off and the blood was sticky. But I’d have done it. God…so far have I come…

Well, since everyone else in the world was thrusting their opinions and (only rarely) erudition upon the masses, I felt I’d might as well join them.

You’ll be wondering who I am and just what in the hell this will all be about. Hell if I know, frankly. But this is the thrust of the moment:About to marry a TX TrooperAbout to move across the country with said trooperAbout to change jobs during the move to TXPacking the whole shebang aloneArranging the whole shebang aloneAlone

That about sums up the goings on here. Here? Well, Atlanta is close enough a descriptor. Where to? That’s the problem – see, TX DPS won’t tell you where until about a month before you have to be there. You put in your preferred cities and hope like hell it doesn’t turn out to be the Permian. What’s on our side? His almost 2 decades of experience, his top 10 level in the class, and his ability to meet people useful to his future.

And, of course, the wedding…the wedding when one hasn’t the proper funds, location or attire. Do you know the pressure on a woman for this solemn event? She must not only manage to arrange the thing in a seamless and lovely fashion but her own fashion must be lovely. And in today’s dollars, that can be upward of $1k. So…this shall be the least fashionable event ever known. Indeed, it shall be the most frugal of events. Is it wrong, Miss Manners, to offer bread and water at a reception? Oh, you think I jest. Sigh…well, only time will tell. At this point finding a location would be nice…

And my job? Oh, yes…asking your company to custom-make a role for you so that you don’t have to commute from the Permian is quite the task. I may have done it but I am still not certain. And if they prefer to wave goodbye to creating the role? Oh, now that shall be an interesting problem…but I declare I shall not worry about it until I need to. In, say, 4 weeks.

And of the man? Ah, what to say of him? Of men, in general?

I will say this – I have known many in my life, biblically and otherwise. The wise older men, the flighty younger men, the duty-bound and the maniacal. There was a time…god, there was a time when I was enchanting. I think back now and wonder why I didn’t put it to better use but it was that damned integrity getting in the way. And now…now, the years fall harder – that consistent age-defying youthfulness fading into that withering – gentle perhaps but present naytheless.

A woman often hasn’t accomplishments to support her older years. She is generally given to caring for others, even in her work, and only when that dewy beauty begins to fade does she remember Herself. And then it is a game of catch-up with this unguent and that maquillage. And sometimes, in the bedroom, the games played to pretend the years haven’t passed. But there comes a time when the cheerleader outfit is…a mockery. Then…what then? I don’t like to think on it.

I do remember the days when I used to write constantly, every night in some slim volume, every day in a more ethereal format. And now, again, to begin, again, and see what can be made of it. There are stories inside…true and otherwise…that would surprise but…one must also be circumspect in this, the greatest of all audiences.

Besides, enough about me. Let’s see if we can link to the prose and ramblings of others whom I enjoy. I warn you that it will be diverse (though I hate the word, now) and sometimes offensive. You always have – and should retain – the right to fuck off. (I love that word.)